


3 Centimeters

by its_mike_kapufty



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [33]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Caring, Fluff, M/M, Soft Boys, Stress Relief, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: Rhett reads online that to calm a loved one down, you simply need to caress them at 3cm per second. Easier said than done, but Link needs to relax.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Series: Tumblr Ficlets [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170695
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	3 Centimeters

3 centimeters per second is unbearably slow. It’s a steep level of unharried where you have to _concentrate_ to maintain it, and even then your hands tremble from restrained effort. But if science says that’s optimal speed for petting a person and bundling them up in endorphins, it must be true–thus, he’s got to work on the shaking.

He saves it, of course. Wouldn’t be as lucrative if he cornered Link to try it out like some life hack or magic trick he’d seen online, overeager to share and impress. How would he even breach that? In the meantime, he practices on himself; absently, a thumb brushes syrup-slow over the veins of the back of his wrist. All he feels is his own hair and doubt that he might’ve fallen for clickbait.

It’s fortuitous that Link isn’t quiet when he’s stressed. He’s all tugged hair and breathy exasperation, glasses removed to rub at temples and bridges. At his worst he slumps to the desk and lets it claim that giant forehead, defeated like he’s rounded the bases back to zero.

“I just need this program to _work._ Can’t set the budget for Tuesday if it doesn’t work, _why isn’t it working?”_

And watching his curled back–the slope of his baseball tee and fetter of his hair–there’s opportunity there, if Link will let him have it. Rhett’s mind is already made up when his office chair rolls over tile in a marbling hush. Link tenses just so at the anticipated closeness and is mumbling about his dang laptop, motioning to it in a troubleshooting sort of way so they can put their heads together and figure it out.

Rhett ignores that and steadies the heel of his hand at the base of Link’s nape. There’s some precious seconds where Link tenses and doesn’t move, though his eyes flick to Rhett in periphery. Assumes this is a moment where he’s touching him, and it’s happenstance, because that happens. But Rhett ends the misconception by testing a single finger’s stroke down Link’s overly-warm neck.

It’s a jitter all over. Link startles like he’s being tickled, glares at his computer screen in bemusement. Glancing to Link’s discarded glasses, Rhett tries again. Gentle and meandering. His hand shakes, but anchoring his palm to Link helps, and the irony of that isn’t lost on him. This time he manages a stoic sweep down, and something shifts.

Link’s shoulders fall. Not by much, but it’s there, and his head tips forward like he can’t help it and wants to give easier access to hands on him.

By the third stroke–with _3 centimeters per second_ held close as a rule he mustn’t break–Link is putty to whatever flight of fancy this is Rhett’s piloting.

It’s hard to tell if it’s science or something else entirely, but Link’s lids fall low and he goes quiet in a lip-quivering way that says _please don’t stop_. Not that Rhett would, now that it’s working. With each passing second and every centimeters-three covered, Link deflates more. Eases into Rhett’s care, a man hypnotized by caresses.

Seeing Link’s annoyance tendril away is nice, yet Rhett hadn’t counted on how soft the Link’s skin is here, right here, where it should be tough from protecting his back and letting water roll off. He’s inviting to the touch, toasty and sleepy, and the gossamer fuzz Rhett is allowed to trawl the pads of his fingers through makes _him_ sleepy in turn.

Intrepid seconds turn to caved-in minutes; Rhett touches him and begs his blood to settle and be happy, and Link is a perfect recipient, precious and purring with low lids. Will deny enjoying it later, but for now would beg, should Rhett quit.

Only once Link appears to be on the cusp of either drooling or drifting off does Rhett break that contact, pulling away and letting air refresh too-hot hand and neck.

“Better?” is all he asks in a low rumble, and Link coils into himself like he can hug the remnants of whatever had just happened and prevent it from floating away. His smile is the down-turned kind, chagrined to exist, but there nonetheless.

“Better.”


End file.
